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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27793018">"I Can Touch Whatever I Want."</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonsinning/pseuds/Moonsinning'>Moonsinning</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Degradation, Dominant Kylo Ren, Eventual Smut, F/M, Finger Sucking, Fluff and Smut, Force-Sensitive Reader, Glove Kink, Inappropriate Use of the Force, Other, Porn With Plot, Smut, Supreme Leader Kylo Ren, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, i dont know where i'm going with this, kind of, kind of rough but rly pretty standard, lmao. lmao, mask kink</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 14:49:20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,520</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27793018</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonsinning/pseuds/Moonsinning</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>You are the security guard in an art gallery and Kylo Ren comes in to peruse.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Kylo Ren/Reader, Kylo Ren/You</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>38</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. The Man in the Gallery</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You sit on your stool in the corner of the art gallery, eyes glazed. People filtered in and out, ambient chatter-- you watch as a little boy jumps in excitement as he points at a large, colorful abstract painting on the wall, tugging on his mother’s hand.</p><p>You never really cared for abstraction.</p><p>Your shift today is 8-5, you recall. It’s 2:17 now, according to the wall clock above the gallery door, and your stomach is growling. </p><p><em> Should’ve brought another granola bar </em>, you think grumpily. </p><p>The little boy is now dragging his mother into the gallery adjacent, which is full of realism. You doubt that room will hold his attention.</p><p>The rooms you usually float between are a horribly boring room of 1500s realism, a room of more contemporary stuff, and the current room, which is mostly abstract art from this century. It feels a bit pretentious to you, but it’s amusing to watch middle aged men look at a ceiling to floor red canvas and mutter to their wives, <em> I could do that. </em> </p><p>Your coworker, Liam, drifts into the room, his hands in his pockets. He nods to you, and you shrug, getting up from the stool and wandering into the contemporary gallery as he takes your place by the door.</p><p>The contemporary gallery is even more colorful than the abstract one, and much more diverse. You walk in, hand resting on the walkie talkie at your hip. There is a couple standing in front of a painting of two balloon animals having sex, the male with a balloon dick and balls and the female with a balloon vagina. </p><p><em>Artists have to be fucking with people.</em> You snort to yourself. <em>They’ve got to be.</em> <em>How idiotic.</em></p><p>Still, the painting amuses you everytime you see it. Good thing the little boy chose the realism section. <em> Close call, mom. </em>The couple wanders away, onto an equally weird piece, no doubt, when your eyes snag on a man standing in front of a sculpture across the room, his back to you. </p><p>He is tall, wearing all black. His sleek dark hair bunches at the collar of his jacket, which is rather long. He’s wearing shiny black combat boots, and as he turns his head to glance at a painting, you see he has a large, angular nose, giving him a harsh profile. You lower your gaze, pretending to be very interested in the sculpture in front of you, which is a bejeweled lady transforming into a swan. The entire thing, save for the jewels, is made of broken styrofoam cups. It would normally be very interesting to look at, but there’s something strange about the man in black that makes you want to look back. </p><p><em> He’s hot, </em> your brain interrupts. <em> Nothing strange, nothing to see here, just a really hot guy who is not going to talk to your dumb ass. Also, you’re at work </em>. </p><p>But it’s not just that. There’s a weird aura to him, as if he were giving off waves of radiation. It’s like he walked into the room and suddenly you have the beginnings of a migraine. </p><p><em> Maybe it’s just the hunger </em> . <em> Maybe I’m just thirsty. </em> </p><p>You glance up from the swan sculpture, back to the man, your temples pounding. The second your eyes connect with the back of his head, he turns around, your eyes meeting briefly. As his eyes connect with yours, an enormous pain shoots through the top of your skull, arcing over it like lightning. You groan involuntarily, your hands flying to your head, but it vanishes as quickly as it came. The man turns back around nonchalantly. You almost laugh.</p><p>
  <em> It’s like he knows. He knows he’s giving me radiation poisoning. </em>
</p><p>You must be going crazy, but you’re so certain. You’re so sure this man’s vibes are just <em> this </em> off, just <em> this </em> rancid that he is literally causing your brain to become soup in your skull. </p><p>
  <em> Maybe the first granola bar I ate was expired. Maybe that’s what this is. </em>
</p><p>A voice snaps you out of your stupor.</p><p>“Excuse me.” </p><p>The man stands about 10 feet from you, his hands in the pockets of his overcoat. He has dark eyes and numerous moles bespeckling his face, his gaze intense but not particularly hostile. His expression is neutral. </p><p>“Tell me about this piece.” He nods his head in its direction, stepping towards it with a casual swagger. You stare at him for a beat too long before your words unstick from the back of your throat. </p><p>“Sure.” You follow him. It is a large painting-- taller than both of you-- depicting an old woman sitting in an armchair. A crow perches on the lampshade beside her, its beak at eye level. Her eye socket is a gory mess, but she smiles contentedly, as if unaware. It is a recent piece-- the last decade-- but it looks very old. It is one of the most expensive pieces in the gallery. You’re not sure why.</p><p>“This was painted in 2012 by James Vince. Oil on canvas. He said in an artist statement that the crow was meant to represent social media.” Your vision swims. You sidestep away from the man, your hand involuntarily meeting your temple. “It’s our second most expensive piece, valued at over 200k.” </p><p>The man’s lip curls. “I see.”</p><p>You take another step back. </p><p>“Can I answer any more questions today, sir?”</p><p>He is silent for a moment. You get the feeling you haven’t been dismissed. Another beat of silence. The pain in your head eases momentarily. You let out a breath you didn’t know you had been holding, looking at him. His nose gives him a bit of a ratlike look, but you don’t dislike it. His eyebrows are furrowed contemplatively.</p><p><em> Handsome :) </em> , your brain offers unhelpfully. <em> Thank you, brain, for that. </em></p><p>“Kind of idiotic, in my opinion,” you offer. He turns his head slightly in acknowledgement, looking at you, but says nothing. “The- uhm- social media crow.” You blink. “Bit obvious. Lazy.”</p><p>He says nothing. Another awkward silence.</p><p>“...Beautiful brushwork, however.” You step closer to the painting. “Here, for example,” you trace the crow’s wing with your hand, hovering above the canvas, “he makes his hand more obvious in the crow than the woman. The realism of the woman solidifies the fact that the crow is metaphorical, not literal. But her wounds from the crow are real…” You trail off. Another beat.</p><p>"I agree," He murmurs, almost to himself, completely immersed in thought. He reaches out to the painting and, to your shock, runs his hand along the gilded frame. <em>A gesture of a thief,</em> you think. <em>A desire to take</em>. You grab his arm instinctively.</p><p>“Sir, you can’t touch that.”</p><p>The pressure in your skull returns sharply, as if you’ve been hit across the head with a folding chair. You drop to one knee, releasing his arm as pain blooms behind your eyes.</p><p>“I can touch whatever I want.”</p><p>You can’t respond. Your teeth are gritted. The pressure releases, gone as quickly as it came. The pain ceases as if it was never there. You look up at him, feeling as if you are going insane, and straighten quickly. </p><p>“I’d like you to take me to your favorite piece in the gallery,” he says.</p><p>“Um.” <em>What the fuck?</em> “Sure.”</p><p>You motion with your hand for him to follow, and turn on your heel towards the door.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I'm back :) Also, all art mentioned in this fic isn't real. I made it up</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The Ark</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Mr. Ren makes an offer.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He follows you out of the gallery. You walk through abstraction, then through 1500s realism, futurism, some shit from the 1700s, then out of the galleries, up the floating wooden stairs to the next floor. Your headache is tingling at the back of your skull, a steady pressure. You can feel his eyes on the back of your head. The two of you enter the first room on the third floor, a gallery of photography. You blow through it. The man follows.</p><p>Through a hallway, another gallery. Then you stop.</p><p>The man steps next to you.</p><p>“Romanticism,” he says.</p><p>You nod. </p><p>“It’s this one.”</p><p>You lead him to a small painting, no larger than a binder. It’s all hazy light and bleeding colors, the subject a capsizing ship. Waves curl over its underbelly. People the size of ants slide into a raging sea.</p><p>“<em>The Ark. </em>1864.”</p><p>The man nods.</p><p>“I see.”</p><p>He examines it. As he does, he leans forward, and his open jacket falls forward, revealing an inner pocket with an odd object inside. A metal, cylindrical object, with ridges on the edges. Your mind bluescreens. <em> Pipe bomb. </em></p><p>As if he heard you, the man quickly straightens, closing his jacket, the cylinder disappearing into the folds of his clothes. You didn’t think that a person could just… carry around a pipe bomb. <em> Aren’t they delicate? Couldn’t it go off in his coat? </em> And it looked pretty intricate from the quick glimpse you got. You can’t alert anyone without it being wildly obvious. You don’t know what to do.</p><p>“What do you think of it?” you hear yourself say. “The painting.”</p><p>His eyes fall over it, landing on the miniature sailors meeting their terrible fate.</p><p>“It’s beautiful.” He turns to you, glancing down, reading your nametag.</p><p>“...Y/N.” </p><p>He says it slowly, as if he’s trying out how it feels in his mouth. It’s weirdly intimate, somehow. Your migraine begins to abate slightly. He suddenly turns towards you fully, his gaze intense. </p><p>“I’m looking for a souvenir, Y/N.” Intense eye contact. You squirm internally, feeling your face go pink. This man has easily been the weirdest interaction you’ve had in a month, work or otherwise.</p><p>“Ah,” You say, “Well, Mr…”</p><p>“Ren.” He does not smile.</p><p>“Mr. Ren, we do have a gift shop, if you want to follow me--” You turn, but he touches your arm, stopping you. </p><p>“I don’t,” He says. A slight smile begins to form, but does not reach his eyes.</p><p>“Uhm,” you smile nervously. It’s just you two in this gallery now; the other five or so people have trickled out. Coworker Liam is nowhere to be seen. Of course. If that thing in this Ren man’s coat is a pipe bomb, well, then, fuck. You try to sound confident, not completely wigged out. </p><p>“Okay, well, sir, I’m not sure I understand you,” you say.</p><p>Ren chuckles. </p><p>“You will momentarily.”</p><p>Before you can process that, he turns, his eyes tracking the corners of the room, settling on a security camera. He raises his right hand towards it, outstretched. You look at him, bewildered, and then back at the camera, which he stares at intensely. There is a moment of nothing. <em> He is crazy, </em> you think. </p><p>Then the camera explodes.</p><p>The bang echoes through the gallery, shards of plastic and metal tinkling to the polished floor. You stumble backwards. Away from him, away from the sudden flare of light, back against the wall. He calmly turns back to the painting, running gloved fingers along the bottom of the canvas. He carefully lifts it off its hook, glancing down at it. Then he tucks it under his arm and looks back at you.</p><p>You stand frozen. There’s protocol for people touching things and people trying to steal. There is no protocol for when visitors explode security cameras through telekinesis. You push off from the wall and move away from him, towards the door, and he swivels to face you. As he steps forward, you step back. The migraine is returning with fervor. You resist the urge to bring your hands to your eyes and take a breath.</p><p>“How did you do that. Tell me how you did that.” </p><p>Your voice is tight.</p><p>“You know how,” Ren says. “You felt it the second I entered the gallery downstairs.”</p><p>He takes another step towards you, warranting yet another step back.</p><p>“You could be great,” he murmurs. </p><p><em> Yes, great at getting migraines </em>.</p><p>“They aren’t migraines,” he says quickly. Another step forward. “Nor a gut feeling, Y/N.”</p><p>The phrase<em> rancid vibes </em> enters your mind.</p><p>“Nor… that.”</p><p>He is arm’s reach from you now. His curt, odd demeanor has fallen away; he is commanding, more comfortable now that he is clearly in control. He is something else entirely, unlike anyone you’ve known before.</p><p>“You have potential.”</p><p>
  <em> Potential to be having an episode. Potential to be institutionalized. </em>
</p><p>Ren frowns. “Potential to yield great power.”</p><p>“Ah,” you suppress a harsh laugh, “Great power against security cameras. To-- to blow things up with my mind. Great power,” you say, your voice rising hysterically, “to be FIRED!”</p><p>He takes a deep, composing breath. </p><p>“Sure. To blow things up. Among other things. Better things.”</p><p>You can barely contain yourself.</p><p>“And how on earth would I reach this great, explosive potential,” You scoff, “Mister Doctor Ren. Oh, Great Commander. How.”</p><p>He seems unphased by your sarcasm.</p><p>“My ship is in the orbit of a close planet. Venus. We leave tomorrow.” He reaches into his coat, into the pocket with the pipe bomb shaped object, and retrieves what looks like a black flashdrive. </p><p>“This contains all the instruction you need. Where to meet me.” He drops it into your palm. There is a funny hexagonal symbol engraved into a divot the size of your thumb. Perhaps it is a button.</p><p>“If you show that to anyone, it will destruct.” He turns towards the door. “And it will take you with it.” He pauses.</p><p>“You have 12 hours to decide.”</p><p>And with that, he briskly turns and walks out of the gallery.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I am flying blind lol feedback is appreciated. Also I feel im writing him a bit ooc because I didn't super want him to kidnap Y/N lest this go in a rapey direction so if anyone has any thoughts on keeping him in character and not having this turn into a nightmare lol</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. The Hologram</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>You are having a very bad night.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It’s dark and snowy as you walk back to your apartment. It’s later than usual; you had to stay back for about three hours to file an incident report. After the Ren man left the gallery, you quickly realized that you had no explanation for the painting or the security camera, but upon talking to your superior, you saw you didn’t have to have one. The footage was beyond bizarre-- you collapsing to the ground in agony, the man facing the camera, reaching towards it, and the screen going instantly black. Combined with your recount of the events, your boss could find no explanation, no way to fault you, and let you go home for the night. The police, however, suspected you aided the man in some way, and didn’t buy into the whole telekinesis thing. Maybe they thought you rigged the camera somehow.</span>
  <em>
    
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Yeah, I rigged the camera to explode, something that I definitely know how to do. I did that without anyone noticing.</span>
  </em>
  <span> You roll your eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You had neglected to mention the pipe bomb to them, or the spaceship, or the flashdrive-keyfob object you were given, but you didn’t think these were details anyone needed. It would all just make you look crazy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You jam your key into the doorknob and step into your dark foyer, shaking the snow out of your hair and dropping your bag on the floor.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What a stupid fucking day.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>You stand in front of your fridge and select a shitty lite beer, trying not to think about the security camera thing. The footage was so.. Unsettling. Cracking open your beer, you decide that you don’t need to think about any of this right now, and that you should put the stupid flashdrive down the garbage disposal and that you would do well to never think of this incident again. You take a swig of beer and throw your jacket (flashdrive in pocket) onto the floor. Another swig. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ick.</span>
  </em>
  <span> You sit at your counter, nursing it, scrolling twitter, reaching for another. A third. Some fireball to take the edge off. An hour passes, then two.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The microwave clock says 9:30. Your eyes slide from the glowing green numbers to your jacket, crumpled on the floor in front of the door. A drunken determination overcomes you and you slide off of your bar stool and stumble to the jacket, ripping the flashdrive out of the pocket. The odd emblem in the front is pulsating with red light. You stand there, staring at it in your palm. The bit about it self destructing echoes in your mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Maybe it’s a tracking device. Maybe it’s listening to me now.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>You just stand there staring at it, at its little blinking hexagon. You can’t get rid of it, but you really don’t want to push the button. Thoughts float hazily through your mind. The pair of officers clearly did not trust you. You knew you would be getting some unpleasant phone calls tomorrow.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What if they arrest me??</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Your heart hammers. You sway slightly, leaning against the sink. The fireball has sunken into your brain. You rub your thumb over the divot, feeling for the button that you are certain is there. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, fuck you,” you spit. You press it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At first, nothing happens. You frown down at it. Then the tip glows a bright blue, and the thing starts whirring, vibrating slightly, you almost drop it. Beams of light suddenly shoot out the end of it, forming a cyan hologram on your floor. You fall backwards against your counter with a sharp gasp. It’s the man from before, you think, but the mans appearance confuses you-- all black, futuresque clothing, with a cape and a black helmet. He is facing away from you, apparently talking to someone you can’t see. Through your drunkenness you realize that this hologram isn’t a prerecorded message; it’s a fucking telephone wire to the Ren guy, and whatever you’re looking at now is happening live. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shit.” You mumble. “Shit. Shit goddamn it shit.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The holo man begins to turn, confirming that yes, this is a two way call. As your eyes connect with the front of his helmet, you panic, blindly pressing the button. The hologram flashes off. Darkness. There’s the sound of ragged breathing, crying, as you slide down the side of your counter and onto the floor, and you realize it’s you, heaving sobs that wrack your whole body. You are hysterical. It’s all too much, too much to process. Too much for one day. You drop the holo flashdrive on the floor. It lies still for precisely two seconds before vibrating incrementally, the way your phone does when you are receiving a call. You whimper and scoot away from it. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Too drunk for this, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you think. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Too drunk. Too much fireball. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Suddenly a loud knocking erupts from your door and you squeak, scooting into the corner.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>BANG BANG BANG BANG.</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>POLICE. WE HAVE A WARRANT FOR YOUR ARREST.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>BANG BANG BANG BANG.</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>The holodrive vibrates on the floor. </span>
  <b>
    <em>BANG BANG BANG</em>
  </b>
  <em>
    <span>.</span>
  </em>
  <span> You scoop it into your hands, pressing the button and pointing it forward. </span>
  <b>
    <em>BANG BANG BANG BANG</em>
  </b>
  <b>.</b>
  <span> It flickers cyan. The big scary helmet man appears. He begins to say something but you cut him off, tears streaming down your face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I ACCEPT. I ACCEPT. GET ME OUT OF HERE RIGHT NOW I ACCEPT.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He glances at the door, which is rattling on its hinges, then back to your sorry, drunk ass. He speaks. You recognize his distorted voice; it’s the same man from before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Go to your bedroom. Lock the door.” Pause.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Five minutes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The cyan blinks out and he’s gone. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This fic is slow as shit. Lol</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Freefall</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>You stumble blindly towards the hallway, cramming your feet into your shoes and whisking your jacket off the floor as you do. The banging on the door is incessant. You grip the holodrive tightly in your sweaty palm and run down the hall, bursting into your room, slamming your bedroom door with your hip and locking it. You are hyperventilating. There is yelling in the hall outside your apartment door, commotion; you run to your window and throw it open, trying to get a breath, pressing your forehead against the screen and squeezing your eyes closed. On the bed, your cat, Elvis, lazily opens his amber eyes. He meows at you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know,” you say, eyes still shut. “I know I know I know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The holodrive vibrates. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No</span>
  </em>
  <span>, you think. </span>
  <em>
    <span>No.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Then, more powerfully, </span>
  <em>
    <span>No. I’m not doing this. I can’t do this. I can’t go outside. I can’t go with this man. </span>
  </em>
  <span>You open your eyes.</span>
  <em>
    <span> I can’t go with the police. I can’t go with the crazy helmet guy. I can’t leave out the front door. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>As if in a trance, you unlatch the screen from the window and throw it aside. Sticking your head out slightly, you look down. A dizzying height in your altered state. You’d live, maybe, but you’d break both legs. You glance up at the night sky, half expecting to see a flying saucer. Of course not. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The holodrive vibrates again. You press the button and this time the head of a man materializes, like a floating marble bust. This causes Elvis to meow loudly and sprint into your closet. It’s a different man; he has light eyes (you think) and a remarkably pointed face, as if he were sucking on a lemon. His voice is sharp and bitter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We are opening a portal underneath the window you’ve just opened. When the holodrive vibrates five times quickly, you will jump out of the window and through the portal, landing safely in our ship.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You let out a bark of a laugh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re tweaking,” You say. The man frowns. You look at him wide eyed. “No, you are. You are absolutely off it. I’m not doing that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man looks displeased. A general displeasure to be talking to you, probably heightened by your hysteria. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your funeral,” he says snidely. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My WHAT?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The holodrive blinks off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As this happens, you hear a particularly loud bang from the front of the apartment, as if your door were being blown off its hinges. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Cool cool cool cool. This is fine. This is okay this is fine this is okay. </span>
  </em>
  <span>You rip your backpack off the back of your desk chair and leap to the closet, scooping up a hissing Elvis and throwing him into the bag. You zip it partway and wear it on your front as if you’re carrying a baby. There’s a loud bang on the bedroom door, causing you to jump in fear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“OPEN UP Y/N.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You wrench the window open further and haul one leg out of it, keeping your eyes fixed on the sky. WHAM WHAM WHAM against the door. You grip the holo. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>CmonCmonCmonCmon.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The door bursts open. Three officers. Guns drawn.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Overkill,</span>
  </em>
  <span> you think hazily.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“FREEZE.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, in your palm, five rhythmic vibrations. You throw your arm around Elvis, encased in the backpack, and without thinking, shout, “SEE YA.” You swing your other leg over the ledge and jump, turning onto your back towards the sky. Two of the cops stick their heads out of your window, gaping down. You make eye contact with the female, who is wearing a bright red lipstick that makes her shock look quite exaggerated. Cartoonish. You tilt your head back, towards the stars, clenching your whole body to keep from puking, eyes fixed on the moon. It’s the last thing you see before the portal swallows you, and everything disappears.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I've decided there are portals. AU where force users can just make portals. Is that a thing? I don't know if that's canonically a thing.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Space Costco</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Itsa short one.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You land on your back, hard, cracking the back of your skull on the floor. Everything goes black at the edges for a second, spinning unpleasantly. You groan. Your body hurts. Elvis squirms and hisses, poking his face out, and you stroke the top of his head.</p><p>“Shhh. Shhh. It’s okay. We’re okay.” This, you know, is probably not true. A dull panic thuds inside of you. You squint, focusing your eyes.</p><p>Above you is a high warehouse ceiling, the architecture gunmetal grey. It sort of reminds you of the ceiling of a Costco, which makes you giggle. The floor is hard and cold. You hear footsteps from all sides, but none very close. No one seems to notice you. Possibilities of what this place could be float through your mind. <em> Costco. </em> You giggle again. You must be concussed. <em> Storage unit. Airplane hangar. </em> Elvis meows and retreats back into the bag<em>. Warehouse. Warehouse inside spaceship. </em> Fear floods your brain for a moment. <em> I am not actually in space. I, Y/N, am not in a spaceship warehouse.  </em></p><p>A ginger haired man comes into your field of vision. It is the pointy faced guy from before. You snort as you imagine him sucking on a lemon. He looks down at you with undisguised contempt and raises his wrist to speak into a device.</p><p>“She’s very…” he purses his lips. “Dazed.” </p><p>You watch him listen to a voice you can’t hear.</p><p>“Supreme Leader, with all respect, how do you know she will be able to figure out where it is.” It is a question, but he grits it out like an accusation. </p><p>“Are you sure that your presence alone caused her headache with no real action from y- no sir. I am not implying that sir. No, not at all sir, you are very controlled, sir.”</p><p>Another pause. </p><p>“I would find it exceedingly unlikely that in your short time on Earth you encountered an individual so connected with the ways of the f- Yes. Yes, sir, I do apologize.”</p><p>He does not look apologetic.</p><p>“Alright. And if she does not comply?”</p><p>The ginger looks straight ahead at nothing. He clearly has some choice words that he is holding back. </p><p>“The rarity of that phenomenon, especially in this solar system- yes, Supreme Leader. No. Yes-” He tilts his head, exasperated. “One more thing. She has…” He sneers down at you. “A cat.” </p><p>“Yes. In a bag, sir.” You hug Elvis tighter. </p><p>“Well,” the ginger sniffs, “I propose the airlock, sir.”</p><p>“NO,” you almost shout. He ignores you. </p><p>He listens, then rolls his eyes.</p><p>“Fine. Fine. Consider it done.”</p><p>He crouches down next to you. You are too disoriented to do anything but watch as he extracts a syringe from his pants pocket. He looks at you with a cold smile. His eyes are a striking ice blue. You feel a cold cotton ball being rubbed in the crook of your elbow; an odd courtesy, considering the circumstances. He pulls the cap off of the syringe and sticks it in a small vial, sucking up a piss yellow liquid. You can barely connect your thoughts together. You tell your legs to move; they do not comply. </p><p>“Well, Miss Y/N,” he smirks, leans down. You feel the cold needle enter your arm. “It appears it is you, and not I, who is ‘tweaking.’”</p><p>You laugh at this in spite of yourself, almost involuntarily, like a spasm. The liquid travels out of its chamber as he presses the plunger.</p><p>“Fuck yourself,” you mumble. The world once again slides away.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Narrator voice: Y/N was not, in fact, okay.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Torture Chair</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>TW for pain ig? I'm was very drunk and then crossed when I wrote this. I am drunk and crossed as I post this! Porn coming soon :)</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>You wake up for what seems like the fifth time in a day. You are somehow still drunk, but also hungover. Your head pounds. Unfortunate. There are fluorescent lights above you, which is doubly unfortunate. You close your eyes harder and try to notice what is around you with your other senses. It is chilly. Your body is on a weird incline, like a dentist’s chair. This makes you nervous; you try not to think about it. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Torture chair,</span>
  </em>
  <span> your brain says. </span>
  <em>
    <span>They will pull your teeth out.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you think. </span>
  <em>
    <span>That doesn’t make sense.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Whatever you fuckin’ say, </span>
  </em>
  <span>says your brain, unconvinced. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Okay. Whatever.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>You try to move your arms and legs, to no avail. You try to lift your head. There is a strap across your forehead, keeping you even from looking around.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Torture chair,</span>
  </em>
  <span> whispers your brain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, shut it,” you mumble aloud.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a rustling noise to your right and you turn your head as much as is physically possible, opening your eyes slightly. Through your eyelashes you see a guy in a strange white body armor. He has a helmet that sort of resembles the helmet of the Ren guy. They look like they’re on the same team, anyway. The white plastic suit guy looks at you for a moment longer, and then turns back towards the open door. It looks like a door from a sci-fi movie to you, the kind that hiss open and closed at the push of a button. Like a grocery store door but futuristic. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pshhh,” you say aloud, imitating the sound you imagine the door makes. It makes you laugh aloud. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh yeah. I am so totally concussed. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“Pshhh. Pshhhhhh.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The guard turns back towards you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Quiet, convict.” He looks away quickly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You giggle and turn back towards the fluorescent light ceiling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whatever,” you say. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Convict??</span>
  </em>
  <span> Your brain points out. </span>
  <em>
    <span>We’re convict now?? I thought we had potential.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I told you, potential to be mentally unwell,” you say aloud again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“SHUT IT,” says the white plastic man. You don’t even look at him, closing your eyes to the bright lights. You clamp your lips shut. </span>
  <em>
    <span>What a douche, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you think.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A few moments of nothing pass. You’re feeling particularly social on this terrible evening, so you decide to speak again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How long have I been in this room?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No response.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You pause.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” you say. “Why am I here?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The plastic man does not turn around. He is evidently not supposed to talk to you.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Great,</span>
  </em>
  <span> says your brain. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Alone again.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>You roll your eyes at yourself. You decide to try one more time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What did he do with the painting?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The white plastic man turns his armored head slightly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Convict, if you speak one more time, I am going to kick the ever living shit out of you. Do you hear me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You raise your eyebrows.</span>
  <em>
    <span> Woof.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yessir, mister guard,” you say. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turns back around.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You scoff to yourself silently.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Wow,</span>
  </em>
  <span> you think. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Wowowowow.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Several minutes go by. You wish the cranky guard would turn the lights off so you could get some sleep. The room is turning unpleasantly and your eyes hurt. More minutes pass, maybe thirty. You flex your wrists and try to arch your back, but there is a fucking strap over your ribcage. Of course. Of course. You settle back down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It has been an hour, maybe, since you awoke.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suddenly, an intercom comes on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“FH-1630. Ready the doors.” It is the voice of the ginger man. Fantastic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The plastic suit man straightens, his hand on the button next to the doors. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Ah, his only purpose in life, to open doors for asshole redheads.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>A moment passes before he presses the button. As the doors open, you make the sound effect noise with your mouth.</span>
</p><p><span>“Pshhhhh.” They sound exactly how you thought they</span> <span>would.</span></p><p>
  <span>You hear the plastic suit man step out, and someone else walks in. The doors shut again with a soft hiss. You open your eyes slightly and turn your head, expecting it to be the ginger asshole. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stand up to him this time,</span>
  </em>
  <span> your brain eagerly thinks. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Spit in his eye!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>What you see, however, knocks the wind out of your. What you see is not the ginger.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s the Ren man. Helmet, Cape. All black fit. The pipe bomb object is in his right hand. He’s wearing the same black gloves. His steps are quiet as he approaches. He slowly swivels, standing next to you near your knees.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You hold your breath, waiting for him to speak. He doesn’t. The tension is killing you; you try to find his eyes behind the mask, but you can’t. After about a minute, you crack.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you like it?” you blurt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He says nothing, but steps closer ever so slightly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The painting,” you say more quietly. “The Ark. Did you like it? What did you do with it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He is still. Your eyes slide back up to the ceiling. The same panic from before ripples through you like a shiver.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I destroyed it,” he says quietly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A strange despair seeps through you. Tears prick your eyes. You should’ve gone with the police.</span>
  <em>
    <span> Decisions,</span>
  </em>
  <span> you think miserably. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stupid. So Stupid.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” he says. He crouches, his eye level closer to yours. His voice is still low, but it frightens you nonetheless. The modulator makes the experience too real somehow. This is no dream; your brain wouldn’t have added the modulator, that small detail. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Inhuman. Not a man. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Your eyes are threatening to spill with tears now.</span>
  <em>
    <span> I am nowhere. I am going to die. </span>
  </em>
  <span>You are still looking away from him, between the lights above you at the shiny white ceiling. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He straightens up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This may hurt.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instantaneously, the migraine is back. You almost scream. Your back arches in pain, chest hitting the restraints. There’s an immense pressure on the top of your head, as if someone were standing on your skull. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“FFUCK,” you nearly scream.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It feels as if there is a palm pressing against your forehead, crushing your conscience. It feels as if someone is flipping through your memories. As if someone is running their hands through you like water. It hurts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The hand retracts, the pain eases. You can feel his eyes on you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You have great potential to be a weapon. To help us find the key we need.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He crouches, even closer than he was last time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can use your connection with the force to magnify mine. I can use you to find it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sounds eager to you, hungry. Excitement rises around his words. At least you know you won’t be lobotomized in the near future.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How?” you say weakly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like this,” he says, and your skull splits once again.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>hmm. yeah. porn soon.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Impenetrable Sphere</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>TW for pain again ? tortur? idk LMAO.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>You scream. The pain recedes like a tide. Your breath comes out in short puffs,</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What- what is that. What are you doing.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He says nothing, tilting his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tricky,” he says finally. “Stop resisting.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not. I’m not. I don’t know what you even mean by that. I- I’m not. I don’t-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’M NOT DOIN ANYTHING.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stands back a bit and you two regard each other for a moment. You jerk towards him in your restraints to see if he’ll flinch. He doesn’t.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you going to cooperate?” He sounds more tense now than before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You puff out your cheeks and sigh deeply, eyes sliding back to the ceiling. He takes a deep, controlled breath, his right hand clenched around the pipe bomb. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You turn your head towards him as far as you can and pout at him sarcastically, patronizingly. You fake sniffle to really sell it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You destroyed my painting.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do not taunt me, child.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The pipe bomb thing in his hand ignites with a loud crackle. You watch in shock as red lightning shoots from the end of it, two smaller jets shooting like guards from what you now understand to be the handle of a sword. A sword of light. The air hums with its power. He points it at your face, both a threat and a display. Heat rolls off of the blade in waves.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Submit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You swallow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay man, okay, I will, I am, please cool it please, please put that away,” the words tumble from your mouth. You can feel the hairs on your chin getting singed. You try to compose yourself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Look, just-- just tell me what I need to do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arcs of red electricity dive through the blade. The saber, you notice, vibrates constantly in a way that makes you think it’s about to explode. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Hah. It would scare the shit out of Elvis.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Wait.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Your eyes widen and you look up at the man in rage. You thrash in the chair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“WHERE’S ELVIS?? MY CAT. WHERE IS HE. WHAT DID YOU DO TO HIM.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You can feel the migraine coming back, but this time you actively resist, pushing back. </span>
  <em>
    <span>There is an impenetrable sphere around my brain,</span>
  </em>
  <span> you think. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Nothing can pass through my impenetrable sphere. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The air in the room starts to feel heavy. Frustration rolls off of Ren and saturates the air. He reaches out with his left hand. You feel a greater pressure around your skull. You will the sphere to reject him, to pass through his grip like a slippery bar of soap. Pressure. Pressure. You squeeze your eyes closed, willing it not to crack. Two fingers touch your temple on one side, pressing into the bone, and it is as if he has created a direct current between the two of you. A force flows from his hand into your brain, and, amazingly, you push it back out, like closing a door against a flood. The fingers bear down, his hand cupping the side of your face, his thumb under your jaw, pressing your head backwards. You hold the door in your mind closed. The leather of his gloves is warm against your cheek. Abruptly, the force recedes and he releases your face from his grasp.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turns away from you, his chest heaving, the saber hanging from his hand, pointed towards the ground. His entire body tenses for a moment and you flinch, watching him take three strides towards the wall. He roars, bringing the lightsaber down against the wall with a harsh electric sound, slashing it again and again. The metal surface glows red around the gashes. You watch him tire himself out until he stands there panting, finally retracting the lightsaber blade. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Silence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turns his head to the side slightly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your cat in my quarters.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pauses. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is safe.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You have no time to process this statement before he abruptly pushes the button on the wall. The doors open with a hiss and you watch him walk out of the room.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>if the end is fucked up its because i was writing it while extremely high my bad lol</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Contact (NSFW)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Kylo ren reevaluates his strategy.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You’ve been in the incline chair so long that both of your buttcheeks are asleep.</p><p>The plastic man stands facing the door, silent. You haven’t spoken in several hours. Your eyelids flutter against the bright lights. Time seems to not exist here; the ship lives in a perpetual, fluorescent night. Tendrils of sleep attempt to drag you under, and you slip in and out of reality. Fear thrums through you in lucid moments. The knowledge that Elvis is safe somewhere calms you down. </p><p>The doors open somewhere to your right. This doesn’t pull you out of your half conscious state, even as you hear someone walking towards you. They hiss shut again. You crack your eyes open. </p><p>It’s Ren.</p><p>“Fuck’s sake, man,” you mumble, closing your eyes. </p><p>“We’re gonna try this again,” he says tersely. </p><p>“Oh yeah?” You peer at him through your eyelashes. </p><p>
  <em> Nothing can get past my impenetrable sphere. </em>
</p><p>To your surprise, he reaches over you and starts to unbuckle the restraints. The chest strap comes off, followed by the forehead. Your surprise must be evident on your face. He undoes your ankles, then moves to your wrists.</p><p>“I’m rethinking my technique,” he says shortly.</p><p>You raise your eyebrows.</p><p>“Sure,” you reply, shaking your head in confusion.</p><p>You swing your legs off of the chair and slowly stand, flexing your stiff muscles. God, you are tired. Ren places his hand on the small of your back and guides you towards the door. His hand has the same electric connection as his fingers did earlier; it’s as if a current is flowing between the two of you. Parts of him are seeping into you. You can vaguely hear his thoughts and feel his feelings, as if the connection was a staticky radio signal. He leads you into the hallway. White plastic man nods curtly to him.</p><p><em> I wonder what his real name is, </em> you think. </p><p>The current between you carries an answer. A name floats into your mind as if on its own accord. </p><p>
  <em> Kylo Ren. </em>
</p><p>He leads you through several more hallways, including a more open room where several plastic suit soldiers clomp around loudly. A strange black robot rolls by, and you stare at it, dumbfounded. Kylo Ren doesn’t even notice.</p><p>The two of you reach a door. You resist saying “pshhhh” as it slides open. </p><p>The room is considerably dimmer than every other room you’ve entered. Several large windows make up the opposite wall, an infinite expanse of stars beyond them. It’s beautiful. The rest of the room is sparse; there is a bed to the left with a nightstand, and to the right there is a table with two chairs. There is no dresser, but there seem to be drawers embedded in the walls themselves, presumably filled with copies of the same perpetually black outfit. The door closes behind you. He walks to the table and pulls out a chair. </p><p>“Sit.”</p><p>You comply.</p><p>He turns away, walks towards the window. </p><p>“The connection.. seems to be stronger with contact.”</p><p>You stare at the back of his head.</p><p>“...Yeah.”</p><p>
  <span>There’s a long pause. He seems to be thinking. You look at him intently, waiting for him to say something, but he doesn’t. Reluctantly, you look away, your eyes flicking around the bare room, then back to him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What was the point?” you say.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tilts his head towards you slightly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hm?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of… taking it. The painting.” You shake your head. “You didn’t even want it. Why take it and destroy it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks away again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You liked it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You frown. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So??”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turns around finally, strides back to you. Stands in front of you where you sit. You look straight ahead, trying to keep your face blank. He tilts your head up towards him, his thumb resting on your chin. You look up slowly. The strange pressure is seeping back into your skull, flowing from his point of contact with you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“People capitulate when you take things from them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He presses against the door in your brain.You try to put the barrier in your mind back up, but you are so tired. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please stop it,” you whisper.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The pressure holds steady. His hand travels to the side of your face, cupping your cheek. You hold your breath, waiting for the head splitting pain. It doesn’t come.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You, however, are tricky,” He says softly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He runs his thumb across your cheek. You say nothing, thrown by the gentleness of this gesture.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I could hear you,” he says quietly. “In the gallery.” His voice is dark and-- hungry? You aren’t sure. “I could hear what you were thinking of me.”</span>
</p><p>You flush.</p><p>“I- uhm-” You have the bizarre urge to lean into his hand.</p><p>“It’s okay.” His voice is low, so low that the modulator almost doesn’t pick it up. “Do it.”</p><p>You do, letting your head fall fully into his palm. Your eyes flutter closed. His thumb grazes over your face, landing against your lips. He hums, gently pressing down. You part your lips slightly and he slips it in, pressing his thumb against your tongue. You moan quietly.</p><p>“Good.” </p><p>He presses it further back. You whine, gagging slightly. He retracts it, dragging it across your bottom lip as he does. You look up at him with wide eyes. </p><p>“Stand up,” he orders. </p><p>You quickly obey. You are shy all of the sudden, looking to the side, avoiding his eyes. You’re afraid of surrendering, of opening yourself to him; afraid of what he is capable of. Abruptly, he places his hand on your hip and forcefully maneuvers you to the table, spinning you around and you against its edge, his hips rolling into your ass. You can feel his hardening member pressed against you and you wiggle against it. He grinds into you harder, one hand reaching up and wrapping around your throat, tilting your head back. You gasp.</p><p>“Quiet,” he says, his voice dark with lust.</p><p>With his other hand he traces a line down the center of your chest, past your belly, coming to rest between your legs. You squirm in his grip and he growls, voice distorted through the helmet. His fingers slowly circle your clit and his grip on your throat tightens; you can feel him against your ass, impossibly hard. His fingers curl and you buck into them, moaning loudly. The connection between the two of you deepens in a way that you can’t understand. The current flows more freely, as if the two of you were one. He suddenly releases your throat and pushes you forward, hard, bending you over the desk. You gasp as he runs his hand between your legs from behind, rubbing your pussy through your jeans, his other hand still on your clit. The pressure in your skull becomes almost unnoticeable as you grind into his hand. </p><p>“Please,” you whimper almost inaudibly.</p><p>“Please what?” he says, his voice ragged.</p><p>“Please fuck me”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I am unfortunately sober. This was draining. more to come.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Please (NSFW)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Porn is So Fucking Hard To Write. Merry Fucking Christmas</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>His hand leaves your clit and you press your hips back harder against his hard cock, whining at the loss of contact. You can feel him hook his fingers into your pants and wrench them down roughly, and almost immediately his hand returns, gloved fingers running along your slit. He presses you down onto the table, your face sideways and flat against the cold surface, and slips a finger into you. You gasp. A strange vibration presses onto your clit, seemingly out of nowhere, and you clench, wriggling away from him. He grabs your hip, holding you in place as he adds another, stretching you, moving them slowly in and out.</p><p>“So wet for me already.” He sounds almost amused.</p><p>He pumps his fingers deeper, curling them inside you and hitting a spot that makes you see stars. The vibration grows stronger, circling your clit, edging you. He moves his hand faster, hitting just the right angle, the combination overloading your brain. You push back against him, feeling your orgasm build inside you, trying to gain friction against the invisible force against your clit, but roughly, abruptly, Ren pulls his fingers out of you. He grabs you by the hips and flips you around so you’re facing him, your lower back jammed uncomfortably against the edge of the table. You barely have time to look up at him before his slick fingers are against your lips, pushing into your mouth. </p><p>“Suck.”</p><p>You obey, swirling your tongue around the digits. </p><p>“Slut,” he says quietly, pressing them deeper. You manage not to gag. He drags them out of your mouth, hooking the middle one on your bottom incisors for a moment, easing your mouth open into an O.</p><p>“Thank me,” he says quietly. His voice is lustful, but there is a menace to it, like the edge of a knife. A veiled threat. You swallow.</p><p>“Thank you, sir.”</p><p>He presses his hips back into yours, his cock fully erect in his pants. The tip of his middle finger still rests in your mouth.</p><p>“Bite,” he orders.</p><p>You do, and he pulls his hand out of the glove, removing it from your mouth and throwing it onto the table. He peels off the other one. You watch in awe as he reaches up to his helmet, pressing some invisible seams on the sides. There is a soft hiss of air. Slowly, he lifts it off of his head. Your eyes widen at the sight of him. His dark hair hangs messily around his face. He is slightly flushed, his pupils blown wide, dark and glittering. He carelessly drops the helmet to the floor with a loud clank and kisses you harshly, his hand knotting into your hair. You kiss him back, gasping sharply as he bites your lower lip, his mouth travelling down to your jaw. He yanks your head back roughly and kisses your neck, teeth grazing your jugular. You feel his other hand grip your hip, his fingers digging into your ass. He bites your neck, eliciting a squeak.</p><p>“Tell me what you want.”</p><p>“Please fuck me,” you whisper.</p><p>His hand releases your hair and he picks you up easily, squeezing your ass as he does. You lock your legs around him and throw your arms around his neck as he kisses you again, his tongue dominating your mouth. His footsteps are heavy and you think he’s moving towards the bed, but instead you feel your back connect with cold glass as he presses you against the window. He hooks an arm under one leg and you feel the force holding you in place as he undoes his pants, his hard cock falling out of his underwear as he pulls them down. He rubs the head up and down your wet cunt, tapping it against your clit.</p><p>“Please.”</p><p>“Please what?” He says.</p><p>“Please, sir,” you whimper, and he slides the head up and down your slit. Excruciatingly slowly, he pushes it into you, hooking his arm under your other leg and folding you in half against the window. Kylo thrusts once slowly, stretching you deliciously before bottoming out, causing you to almost scream, throwing your head back against the window. He pulls almost all the way out before thrusting back in with a grunt. You pant as he picks up his pace, pounding into you and making you gasp with every thrust. He goes deeper, hammering into you, leaning forward to bite your exposed neck.</p><p>“You like it, whore?” </p><p>You can only whimper, knotting your hands in his hair. He abruptly lifts you up again and carries you to the bed, throwing you on it on your stomach. You feel the mattress dip as he kneels on the bed behind you and grabs your waist, pulling your hips up. The tip of his dick is at your entrance and he pushes in again, continuing his brutal pace. He pulls your hips closer to him to go deeper, hitting you at the perfect angle, making your vision go white, and this time you do scream. Words tumble out of your mouth.</p><p>“Yes, yes, please, right there, please please, don’t stop, Kylo, yes,”</p><p>He slams into you again and again, your orgasm building inside of you. </p><p>“Cum for me, whore.”</p><p>His order pushes you over the edge and your vision turns to nothing, your body trembling as you climax with a loud moan. He snaps his hips into you three more times and groans, bottoming out and cumming inside of you. He collapses, half on top of you, arm draped over your body, his breathing heavy. A few minutes pass; his breathing evens out slowly. You turn your head to look at him, and his eyes are closed, his chest slowly rising and falling. You stare at him for a moment. Everything seems peaceful right now. Simple. You turn on your side to face him and tentatively run a hand down his clothed chest. You may not have another chance to.</p><p>To your surprise, the arm that is still draped over you wraps around your torso, pulling you to his chest, your body flush to his. You hesitate before wrapping your arms around him, burying your face in his shirt. You feel the connection between the two of you widen, the edges of you blurring. Where does he end? Where do you begin? A memory that is not your own floats through your head: an image of <em>The Ark</em> being placed into a drawer, black shirts and pants folding around it, the drawer closing into the wall. </p><p><em> I knew you liked it, </em> you think. <em> I knew you wouldn’t destroy it. </em></p><p>His arm tightens around you in response, a gentle squeeze.</p><p>Your eyes flutter closed and exhaustion drags you under.</p><p><br/>
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</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Dude I don't even know. Probably one more chapter to wrap up. Feel free to give porn feedback but I am too drained to fix it. Hope u enjoyed xx</p><p> </p><p>Edit again: Fine. One more chapter. We Die Like Men.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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